


Champagne and White Lace

by ktbl



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Foreplay, Gratuitous Smut, Love, Married Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Teasing, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktbl/pseuds/ktbl
Summary: "Says a lot, coming from you.” Sonya turns to face him and adjusts his jacket one last time, not that it will make a difference - he was a mess to her rules-and-regs eyes within thirty seconds of getting dressed, and he’ll be a total wreck the minute he gets onto the red carpet. Three years of marriage and she still hates these dress-up nights, but she sucks it up and deals with them because he loves them so much. The lights are too bright, the crowds too large and unpredictable, there’s too much talking and not enough doing, the reporters and paparazzi drive her up a wall, but this is Johnny, and she’ll do it for him.She’ll take battlefield ops and gunfire and grenades and raiding a Black Dragon hideout over this any day, though.--Sonya hates movie premiere nights, and Johnny is very willing to make it up to her.
Relationships: Sonya Blade/Johnny Cage
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Champagne and White Lace

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I sketched this out initially as just a character development piece, trying to figure out how Sonya and Johnny would have interacted in bed so I had a contrast point for the series I'm working on, and then just decided to expand it for those folks out there (like me) who have a CageBlade thing. I’m, uh, also not sure how this hit the word count it did. So now it’s a Thing.

“You,” Johnny murmurs into her ear, “are the most unbelievably sexy woman I have ever laid hands - or eyes - on.” He slides one hand up the back of his wife’s dress, or what claims to be the back. It is, in fact, mostly an expanse of skin framed by emerald green silk. His fingers find scars and trace across them, settling briefly on a pair of divots almost hidden by the fabric, a jagged reminder of Kabal’s hookswords. Almost hidden, but not quite - like she’s unafraid, unshamed, by her scars. He presses a lingering kiss to her neck, breathing in the citrus-gun oil-Sonya scent of her. It’s like it’s his birthday and Christmas rolled together, getting to take her out somewhere fancy and she’s not in uniform.

“That says a lot, coming from you.” Sonya turns to face him and adjusts his jacket one last time, not that it will make a difference - he was a mess to her rules-and-regs eyes within thirty seconds of getting dressed, and he’ll be a total wreck the minute he gets onto the red carpet. Three years of marriage and she still hates these dress-up nights, but she sucks it up and deals with them because he loves them so much. The lights are too bright, the crowds too large and unpredictable, there’s too much talking and not enough doing, the reporters and paparazzi drive her up a wall, but this is Johnny, and she’ll do it for him.

She’ll take battlefield ops and gunfire and grenades and raiding a Black Dragon hideout over this any day, though.

It makes him happy when she comes along, since she won’t always - and he always finds a way to make it up to her. It’s easier to just mentally draft a hypothetical tactical assault on the party or the ceremony or whatever it is she’s attending, while outwardly she pastes on a smile, wears ridiculously expensive dresses and jewelry, and only occasionally threatens to break someone in half. If she’s honest with herself, though, she enjoys some of Johnny’s cocky swagger, how good he looks all dressed up (even if it’s not all lined up right), and takes some quiet pride in the way he turns down every person who propositions him (and it’s frequent).

“Nothin’ but the truth.” He runs a hand from the nape of her neck along the curve of her spine one last time, sending shudders and sparks through her body. “So, baby, can I let you go wandering around without an escort?” She elbows him hard, and he grunts. “I deserved that.”

“Damn right you did. Still not your baby, Cage.”

“Just remember, can’t be worse than the first tournament, can it? You go in, mingle, I’ll chat up the press and come find you.”

“Think you’ll be able to? You’re going to be the hot commodity. Maybe,” she adds hopefully, “I could just make my escape?”

“Dressed like that? There’s gonna be a crowd around you and I’ll have to fight my way through. You won’t be hard to find - and no getting out of this, either. We’ll walk the walk, I’ll talk the talk, and then I’ll get you out of that dress - and everything under it - as soon as possible.” He feels the limo glide to a stop, and kisses her once, carefully, trying not to smudge her lipstick. “Alright - party face on, gorgeous.” The door swings open and he steps out, turning back to face her and help her out of the limo. The last look, the last moment that is theirs, and theirs alone, before the assault of flash bulbs and microphones. “Love you, babe.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, Johnny. Think I’d rather face Liu Kang and Kitana these days, than… this.” She lays one of her hands in his, and he beams even more. Before she lets him guide her out, she looks up to him, and whispers in his ear. “And for the record, I’m not wearing anything underneath this dress.”

She grins - a real grin, not the pasted-on one for the cameras - at the strangled noise he makes.

That makes it almost all worthwhile.

She does the necessary glad-handing and small talk while she waits for him to finish with the press gaggle and with his friends, because Johnny knows everybody and everybody knows Johnny. Everybody also learned very quickly that Sonya was here because of Johnny - not because she wanted to be. Except for a spare few acquaintances, most people gave the Lieutenant Colonel a wide berth (she’s not Mrs. Cage, never will be - and the first reporter to make that mistake was also the last). She tries to remind herself it’s like a service ball or any of the numerous formal functions she’s had to deal with - except far more uncomfortable, and she’s like a wounded seal and she’s certain these Hollywood sharks can smell blood in the water.

She feels no small amount of relief when she hears his voice coming towards her. Then, for the gossips - because if you don’t keep them fed, they start sniffing around for any scraps they can find - she deftly avoids the hand that comes to curl around her waist, sliding her hand up his arm and bending his elbow back to an awkward angle.

“One of these days, I won’t realize it’s you,” she says, a little more loudly than she needs to, “and I will drop you first and ask questions later.” He grins, and it flickers for just a moment as she bends his arm back with some true force - and then she lets go and he draws her against him. Wearing high heels, she matches his height, and he brushes his lips against her cheek.

“You can put me on my back any time,” he says with a wink, and the elbow to his gut isn’t feigned at all. Two in a night - a record outside of the sparring ring. He grunts at the blow. “Duly noted. Time go in, babe.” One of his broad hands spreads out over the small of her back and they make their way through the crowd.

They deftly avoid the afterparty, Sonya’s excuse quick and easy: she has work - a _real_ job - and they have a daughter. Neither one of them is a valid reason tonight, but the only people who know that are her and Johnny. Cassie is with her cousins at Johnny’s sister’s, and Sonya has the next day off work. The night is theirs, and as much of tomorrow as they want. So all is done and they escape in the limo, Sonya settles herself across from Johnny, reaching for the bottle of champagne and the flutes tucked inside.

“Oh, fuck that.” He lunges forward, full of unabashed desire for his wife, and absolutely no restraint. He’s been thinking about her and that virtually backless green dress, the long stretches of her legs, her assertion she’s not wearing anything under it, all night.

Meanwhile, his wife lifts up one of those legs and puts her foot on his stomach, the heel of her shoe resting on his belt buckle. She’d called the buckle gaudy - that was one step up from ridiculous, in her parlance, but it was as much praise as she’d ever give his collection. He had seen the half-smile on her face as she said it. His eyes slowly sweep from the pointed tip of her shoe and up along her legs, the small scars along her calf and halfway up her thigh, to where the skirt drapes back into her lap.

“Fucking this comes later, Cage. You hauled me out, made me dress up and glad-hand, I’m drinking the good stuff. We’ve paid for it, one way or another.” Her lips part in thin smile, and he reaches forward again, but is held down from the pressure of her foot. He settles instead for curling his fingers around her legs, running them up and down her calf. He watches her take a towel from where it sits beside the ice bucket for the bubbly, and drape it over one of her arms. She tucks the bottle against her abdomen, and then looks across at her husband. He can’t think of anything better to watch than her, all things considered. They’ve done this before, and sometimes he looked forward to the limo ride home more than he did the premiere. He can’t decide tonight if he’ll wish for bad traffic to draw it out, or a miracle and a quick drive home, so he can end all the playing around.

She smiles and it makes his brain short-circuit. It’s a smile a little wicked, a little wild, the impulsive grin that usually precedes her leaping headfirst into a fight. She looks down at the champagne bottle, folding down the little metal key on the cage. He watches her fingers, those long fingers painted a green that matched her dress, nails he wanted see pressed against his body tonight, raking down his chest, wrapped around -

He stops thinking as she drops a little lower in the seat, spreading out her legs and her other knee peeking out of the other slit on the dress as she seats the bottle more firmly against her lower abdomen. Johnny swallows again and licks his lips. She keeps eye contact with him as she turns the little metal key precisely four half-turns, and then adjusts her grip to hold the cork tightly, cupping the bottle just _so_. The deliberate precision of her movements, the businesslike method, is maddening. All he wants to do is throw the bottle aside and kiss her, grind himself against her, get her on his lap-

He hears a throaty sound, then looks up to see her eyes bright and a smile curving the corners of her mouth, the low laugh that pulls at his heart along with his groin. He is already rock-hard and full of wanting, needing, her - and she knows it, the way she twisted the bottle, the way her hands curve around it, turning it, the way her fingers slide along the bottle and its neck.

“Get the glasses, mister movie star,” she says as the cork hisses softly and she slowly, firmly, gently, extracts it from the neck of the bottle with a practiced twist, a twist he really wish she’d apply to something other than the bottle.

“Or you could just let me pour it all over you and lick it off,” he offers, but knows her response before she can give it. He takes both champagne flutes and leans forward as she eases her leg off his lap, letting her fill one and then the other. She wipes a drip off champagne off the bottle lip, and his eyes are on that glistening droplet as she slips her finger into her mouth, tongue swirling around her fingertip to lick it off. He groans, shifting in his seat, and she smirks, tipping her champagne flute in his direction.

“To surviving the premiere.”

“To surviving the night,” he offers instead as she slips off her heels and puts both her feet in his lap. They clink glasses and she sips, closing her eyes and sinking back against the seat in bliss. He sets his flute aside, picks up one of her feet and begins to rub it, and then switches to the other. Her face softens and she takes another sip, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. He watches the long smooth column of her neck, the way her chest rises and falls as she breathes, and he props both her feet up on the seat next to him. He carefully crosses the interior and sits down next to her. “I know you hate these, so. Thank you, babe.”

“I make you earn it every time,” she answers, reaching forward and running a finger along his cheek without opening her eyes. “And you’re sure as shit gonna earn it tonight, Johnny.”

“Worth it,” he grins, kissing her. He doesn’t know how he’s managed to catch her, get this tough-as-nails Special Forces soldier into his life, into his bed - and with a pair of rings glinting on her left hand. He kisses her long and slow and gentle, drawing her lower lip into his mouth, hands dropping down to cup her breasts and run his thumbs over her nipples. They harden almost instantly, and she tastes like champagne and something spicy-sweet and he can’t get enough. He could do this all night (and has), just spend hours with her in his arms, memorizing her mouth, the way she tastes. He drops a hand to the bared glimpse of thigh, glides upward, and she nudges it away before he can slide his fingers to the cleft between her legs. He slides his wandering hand back up to her breasts and simultaneously peppers the top curves in kisses, feeling her hands twist into his hair.

“There are a shortage of perfect breasts in this world,” Johnny says with the tone of someone quoting something, and for once, she recognizes it.

“You’re not damaging mine.” She sips the champagne again. “Or covering them in good bubbly, so get the idea out of your head. This is better than what they serve at base, anyway.”

“And it’s not that awful grog stuff-“

“Hey now, our grog has a history.” She’s indignant, and he’s brought up something with military tradition, which means he’s in for it now.

“Your grog has about a dozen different kinds of booze in it. I don’t know how you drink that stuff.”

“If you don’t like it, I’ll invite Jax along next ball. You can stay home with Cassie.” Her voice is acid-sharp, and he knows he’s pushed too far, even joking. To make amends, he covers every spot of skin he can see in kisses, his fingers gliding up and down her legs, inching ever closer upward but not to the point that she makes him stop again. Limo drivers are discreet, but Lieutenant Colonel Blade has a reputation and she’s not going to risk it being sullied by what she might have allegedly done in the back of a limo - he’s learned that the hard way. He turns his attention back to her breasts, thumbs rubbing circles over her nipples, and then he can’t breathe when she drops one hand over the bulge in his pants, palming him.

“Not fair,” he complains, inching one hand up her thigh.

“All’s fair in love and war, isn’t it? And who’s the soldier here?” She rubs hard with her palm and he thrusts up against her, breathing becoming difficult. She smirks and keeps working him with her palm, and he has to pull away and bite down hard on the inside of his mouth. “Never said anything about this being fair. I’ve got the advantage.”

“Jesus, Sonya, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Want me to stop?” She presses down and pauses, looking sidelong at him, and he knows she knows the answer. He decides he’s going to wish for no traffic and green lights all the way home, because she’s looking at him like she’s hungry and he’s the best choice on the menu.

They pull up in front of the Venice Beach condo, and she is the epitome of perfect composure, pristine and not a hair out of place. He’s an absolute mess, shirt rumpled and jacket hanging askew, his hair mussed. She can feel the hard bulge between his legs pressing into her ass as she takes her sweet time with the keycode for the condo, the way his hands dig into her hips and the smell of his champagne-laden breath in her ear.

“When we get inside, I swear to fucking God, Sonya, I am going to make you forget your own name,” he says, voice rough with lust. He grinds himself against her, and she wriggles back, earning another choked sound from him, fingers tightening on her, and the single deliberate thrust he makes in response. She grins to herself as the door clicks open, and she pushes back against him to open the door.

“You usually can’t keep from saying my name, so I call bullshit.” She throws a glance over her shoulder, making her way towards the stairs and ignoring the small elevator entirely. She knows exactly what it does to her legs and ass as she walks up in heels, and is sure she hears his teeth grinding as he follows.

They get inside the condo and then all bets are off. The silence inside is a distinct change from the usual chaos, and it’s blissful. She opens the door and just keeps walking down the hall towards their bedroom, flicking on the hallway light. Johnny is just far enough behind her to shut the door and slide the deadbolt home and watch her, the confidence she exudes with every step. She knows he’s behind her, she knows he’ll shut and lock the door, she doesn’t question it; he knows she knows, that she trusts him. When he gets to the bedroom, she is standing there, waiting for him, and he shuts that door too - out of habit more than necessity. It’s not a big room, but his eyes only skim over everything else in its haphazard order, resting on her gauntlets on the bedside table, before they fall back on her. He closes the space between them in quick steps.

His fingers curve around her waist, and he hauls her tight against him, kissing her like he’s drowning and she’s the last source of air. One of her hands curls around the nape of his neck, the other moving viper-quick between their bodies, beginning to work at the belt buckle. She pulls away, swearing profusely.

“I fucking hate these things. I’m going to use them for grenade practice.”

“You say that all the time, and yet there isn’t a single one that’s gone missing.” He finds the catch without looking, thumbs it open, and the flashy CAGE buckle hangs loose.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, sliding a hand in against his skin, down between his legs. He sucks in a sharp breath, one hand climbing her back to twine in her hair, kissing her again, groaning against her lips as she brushes her fingers across his shaft. He can’t think, wanting to return the favor, sink his mouth and fingers into her, onto her. Every touch of her hands sets his nerves firing, and he wants her hands all over him for that rush. “Or maybe the day after,” she amends, hand pulling away, and he makes an inarticulate sound at the absence.

Her hands tuck into his pants and pull them down, letting his cock spring free. He grabs her face in his hands, draws a line with his tongue along the shell of her ear, nibbling at her earlobe. Her lips part, a soft moan in his ear.

“I’m going to make you beg, Johnny.”

“Promises, promises, LTC.” He thrusts against her, the silk between her legs soft and smooth against him, but it isn’t her. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Oh,” she says, with a smile that should terrify him but instead makes desire lance through his body, “I know exactly where I’m putting my mouth.”

She sinks to her knees, keeping eye contact as she does. She finds this just as arousing as much as what he does in bed - and he knows it, and she knows he knows it. His wife, a lieutenant colonel in the Special Forces, dressed formally and impeccably coiffed - such a change from her every day - on her knees, of her own volition. He slides one hand into her hair, into the mass of blonde hair, as she takes him into her mouth with a teasing slowness, hand wrapping around the base of his cock. He closes his eyes and lets out a not-so-quiet sigh of pleasure. She hums, a little nonsense song, her eyes on his face as he tries to focus. She loves that look on his face, the intense pleasure, the way his fingers cup the back of her head and he just abandons any pretense of restraint. She can see the flush through his chest and neck and face, and she feels her own blood thundering in her ears. He begins to move with her, his fingers knotting into her hair.

Her other hand she dips down to the pulsing heat between her thighs. It’s self-serving, but she can see his eyes track her hand, feels him twitch in her mouth and a moment of pressure on her head as he slides deeper into her mouth. She works herself in time as she tongues his cock, free hand twisting along him. This has never been her favorite thing on its own, but the open-mouthed half-lidded eyes, the pure lust and wanting on his face, is worth it. Knowing she can strip him bare and see the core of him, without any of the actor’s masks and personas. Knowing that she can undo him entirely. She looks up at him, meets his eyes, trails her tongue along the underside of his cock, and watches his face twitch, feels it mimicked in her mouth.

“Fuck, Sonya. I love this, love-“ he manages more words than she expects, but none of them except her name had more than one syllable. He swallows, clearly fighting for some control. “Can’t decide if you doing that is hot as fuck or if I’m jealous you get your hand there and I don’t.” She swirls her tongue around the length of him, and he moans, losing words again. Say what you will about Johnny Cage - and he’ll say a lot about himself, given the chance - he doesn’t hold anything back when it comes to sex. She’s never had any illusions about what does it for him or what doesn’t. She’s pretty sure as long as she tells him she’s interested, that’s all he’ll ever need.

He keeps talking - he really can’t shut up, ever - but it quickly becomes a a litany of her name and “don’t stop” until she pulls back, feeling the tension in his body growing and the rising salty taste in her mouth. She rocks back on her heels, looking up at him with her own satisfied smile. She chuckles at a thought, and he reaches down, takes one of her hands, lifts her up. “What’s so funny?”

“Tell the me after I graduated the Academy,” she says, spreading her other hand on his chest, “that I’d be wearing thousand dollar dresses, married to a Hollywood actor, and going down on him after a movie premiere, and I’d’ve shot you point blank without a second thought.”

He laughs too, taking her hand that had been between her legs. He kisses her palm and then draws each fingertip into his mouth, tongue twisting around them as he sucks each one. It sends a jolt through her body and the throbbing between her legs goes up a notch. “Well, tell a younger me that I’d be married with a kid and I’d’ve laughed your ass out of the room. Tell me that she was a hot woman in uniform who tasted as good as she looked, and I might - might - believe you.” He kisses her, tongue swiping along hers, and she can taste herself on him, along with the champagne, figures he can taste himself on her but doesn’t seem to care. They kiss long and deep with tongues and occasionally teeth, and every kiss, every touch, makes her skin feel tighter. She feels like a teenager in the first throes of lust, an idiot, not the composed soldier she’s supposed to be.

And she doesn’t care.

He needs those minutes of kisses and keeping her mouth and hands above the waist to get down off the edge. He still cannot believe how much he loves this woman, this maddeningly regulation-obsessed woman, with eyes like ice and hair like the sun. He loves her with every ounce of his being, and watching her go down on him, especially still in her finery. The only thing that’s started more fantasies is when she does it in uniform, and that’s happened once and only once and he’s going to hold onto that memory until the day he dies.

“I want to look at you,” he says finally, voice catching in his throat. “Out of the dress.” He reaches his hands up to her shoulders, hands sliding over the nubbly silk bodice and straps. He lays a trail of hungry kisses along her neck to the hollow of her throat, and then down over the expanse of skin to her cleavage. He laves the curves of her breasts with his tongue, fingers trying to find the zipper on the dress by touch alone, without having to pull away from her. She laughs, and he can feel her body rise and fall under his hands and mouth.

“It would kill you if I said I was sewn into this, wouldn’t it?”

“Please tell me you weren’t,” he swears, mouth still pressed to her skin. “Please.” There’s a faint taste of salt on her skin, and he does not want to rip this thing but he’s sure as hell not going to have the patience to look around and find a seam ripper to get her out of it. He can get her out of her uniform in under a minute - he’s timed it - but a dress, even one slit up the sides?

“I wasn’t,” she exhales, “but you seem like you still need help.” She turns around under his hands, guiding one hand to where the invisible zipper lays. He finds the pull, and in a feat of sheer concentration, unzips it slowly rather than ripping it down. It hits the bottom stop and he slips one hand in to rest against her bare skin. With the other hand, he begins to slide the shoulder caps down her arms. He pulls the hand out from the zipper and then the dress falls to the floor, a gleaming green pool around her ankles.

She has, in fact, lied to him. She does have underwear on, but it isn’t much, just a scrap of white lace, and a barely-there bra. He slides a hand between her thighs, feeling the heat and wet at his fingertips, the lace soaked. He rubs the pad of his thumb along her, and feels her tremble, her knees almost buckle. He does it a few more times, watching her bite down on her lip, as if she’s restraining herself, resisting.

She steps out of the gown puddled on the floor, lifts it up, and very deliberately walks to where its bag was flung over a chair. He can’t keep his eyes off her - the smatterings of lace accent the lines of her body, and he couldn’t look away if his life depended on it. It’s all he can do to strip off his jacket and shirt, managing with an almost methodical efficiency while lays out and very slowly hangs up the dress, and then turns to face him. He is not nearly so neat, and simply drops his clothes on the floor.

Sonya takes a moment to admire him, sidelong. He keeps himself in damn fine shape, and is objectively one of the most attractive men she’s ever encountered - she’ll die before she ever says that out loud and gives him the satisfaction of hearing it. He spends more time getting himself ready than anyone else she’s ever met, but it goes to good effect. He’s all muscle and hasn’t let any of it go to fat, even with taking fewer roles so he can do more of the child wrangling so she can focus on work. She gives him hell regularly about all his moisturizing and skin care, but he’s almost perfectly unscarred. There’s the tattoo - there’s always that tattoo - but that’s almost it. Compared to her scars and burns and the rough skin and calluses, he’s in mint condition. She walks back over to him, slowly, and deliberately looks him over from toes to mussed hair, and she’s pretty sure she can see his erection visibly twitch when she does. Another grin pulls at one side of her lips.

He takes her into his arms and begins to cover her shoulders in kisses and works his way down her body worshipfully. He traces knife scars with his tongue and it sets her skin aflame; he presses a kiss atop the puckered scar left by one of Scorpion’s kunai, and his hands are firebrands marking the tiny flecks of shrapnel wounds. He pays particular attention to her legs, licking and kissing their length, lifting her fee one at a time and pulling off her shoes. One at a time, he tosses them to the side, and presses his thumbs deep into her arches. She moans at the feeling, and can feel his grin in the spread of his lips as he kisses her ankle.

“I like that sound. I’ll take more of that,” he says, “and I know just how to get it.” He pushes her back onto the bed, kneeling down at the edge and kissing his way up her legs to the juncture of her thighs. He moves her gently, cupping her ass in his hands and tugging her just so, drawing her legs up over his shoulders. Her breath hitches as he runs a finger along the underwear, and then pulls it aside, dropping his mouth along her folds.

She moans again, and he settles himself between her thighs, determined to exact every possible sound from her. He pulls off the wisp of white lace, pretty sure he’s torn it as he does. He laps, licks, nibbles, and blows; he slides his tongue the full length of her and swirls his tongue around her clit, and is amazed by how wet she is, revels in how he can take the lieutenant colonel and bring her to this. He shifts slightly, and she sucks in a breath as he slides in a pair of fingers, plunging them inside her. Her hips buck off the bed, and feels his own breath quicken, go ragged, even though he’s not the one being driven towards an orgasm.

Her fingers clutch at his head, knotting in his hair; her legs tighten around him, heels digging into his back. She finds it very hard to think about anything at all except for the way he’s going down on her, the fingers curving inside her and working every inch they can reach, while his tongue spreads flat across her clit and she tries to ride his face, wanting more friction, more pressure, more of everything. She whimpers - that’s the only word for it, and she hates it - and she can feel the throbbing spark between her legs arcing out, along her body. She knots her fingers into his hair and pulls him closer, and moans as he gets the hint and works her to the brink of orgasm.

He lifts his head and she whines, her heels digging in again, hands trying to pull his head back down. “Come for me, babe,” he rasps, rubbing his thumb over her again. “I want you to come for me.” He buries his face between her thighs once more. There’s a moment where she can’t decide if she wants to try to hold off just so he doesn’t think she’ll do what he says, or if she wants to surrender herself to the overwhelming pleasure building up inside her body. He works his fingers, plunging them in and out of her, and he crooks them just _so_. The spark of pleasure becomes a flash of lightning along every nerve, toes curling, everything going bright and starry at the explosion of sensation. When her vision clears, she can feel him kisses the inside of each thigh once, and watches as he climbs up on the bed beside her, both of them shifting back away from the edge.

“Have I ever told you how much I love to watch you come?” His voice is almost conversational, a hand sliding up from her thighs to her stomach to her breasts. Her hair is a mussed golden halo around her head and she can’t quite think straight, not yet, so she kisses him instead. Her limbs are heavy, and she nuzzles his neck, bites gently at the skin. “You do this thing, where you-“

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

He laughs, runs a hand along her face. “You’re so damn hot, Sonya.”

“Not so bad yourself, Johnny.” She watches the way the corner of his mouth twitches when she says his name, like he’s hiding a smile. She stretches out, runs a hand down his body, lets it close around him and he thrusts up in her grasp. “Oh, like that, is it?”

He rolls over and is on her in an instant, kneeling between her legs again, and then puts his arms down on either side of her shoulders. “Yeah. Like that.”

She wraps her legs around his waist, her hands gliding over the muscles of his arms, nails digging in and leaving crescents. He bends his head to hers and grins against her mouth, supporting himself on his hands as he kisses her. She reaches up and hauls him down against her, wanting nothing more than the feeling of his body against hers. She feels him, the length of him trapped between their bodies, warm and smooth and impressively hard. Her touch skims across his back, his sides, until finally she lets him rise up again. He takes one hand and slips his fingers along her folds, dipping in and out a few times. He looks down at her, and her expression is almost irritable.

“Forget what you’re supposed to do?” she asks, lifting her hips up as if to catch him, and he grins again, shifting slightly, drawing away.

“Do I have something you want?” His mouth splits in a broad smile and he adjusts his position, and she can feel him just brushing against the sensitive skin between her legs.She lets out a throaty, almost feral noise. He’s heard it before, but usually when they’re going at each other in a sparring ring or training room, and he’s pissed her off. He moves his hands again, puts one on either side of her shoulders, and leans down to nip at the soft skin under her jaw. She makes that noise again and looks at him through half-closed eyes.

“Use your words, isn’t that what we say to Cass? I wanna hear it,” he says, lips close to her ear. This is something he likes a lot more than she does - she still feels uncomfortable voicing what she wants, more often than not. He has no such hangups.

Finally, she manages, faintly. “I want you.”

“Okay.” He lays his head down on her chest. “There you go.”

“That wasn’t it, you pain in my ass.”

“Then tell me.” He goads her, just a little. “Back massage? For me to leave you alone? A new pair of underwear, ‘cause I’m pretty sure we just trashed those.”

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it, Johnny.”

“See? That wasn’t so… hard,” he says blandly, and she smacks him in the shoulder with a fist. “Other things are, but-“

“I swear to God,” she says, tightening her legs around him, “that will be the last premiere I ever show up for, if you don’t-“

And then he’s inside her in a single thrust, settling so their hips are flush. She’s full of him and takes a moment to adjust, enjoy the sensation of being stretched around him, before he begins to move. Every time they do this It doesn’t take them long to find a rhythm that appeases them both, and she’s caught by surprise when he lets out a soft laugh. She digs her nails into the skin of his forearm.

“This funny?”

“More just remembering how many people you’ve utterly destroyed with these,” and he slides back, not quite pulling out entirely, running his hands along her thighs. “Are you sure I can’t get you to do a movie with me sometime, babe? You could just do a little work, couple of weeks tops-”

“Gimme five seconds,” she says, levering herself up on her elbows, “and I will destroy you. Stop working your mouth.” She tilts her hips and pulls him against her with her legs. She wants - needs - touch, the physical contact, and her nails drag down his chest, his shoulders, his back, whatever she can reach. He grins, and slowly, slower than she wants and faster than he’d like, he thrusts back inside her. He - for once - has been rendered speechless, his eyes on her, and she knows he can see the look on her face, the hungry wanting. They find their rhythm again, hands roving, desire driving them onward.She can feel every movement of him inside her, stoking the heat curling deep in her abdomen. He has an unflagging enthusiasm that is contagious, the unadulterated eagerness for their joining that hasn’t dropped a whit since they married.

He drives harder into her, and she can also tell of the look of frustration that says something here isn’t working, getting him where he needs to be. Where either of them want him to be. She cups her breasts in her own hands, rolls her nipples between her thumbs, tongue darting out to wet her lips. He bites down hard on his lower lip, and makes a frustrated noise, surprising both of them.

“How do you want me?” She makes the offer in a lust-roughened voice and he blinks, dazed and taken aback - she doesn’t make that kind of offer. He pauses, then takes one of her legs and lifts it up, stretching it out and up against him. She hooks a heel over his shoulder as he starts in again, hard and fast and she feels like she might be split in half, but it’s an intense and overwhelmingly wonderful kind of splitting. The posing her - the control she’s ceded to him - is a rare thing. Heads would roll if they knew Sonya Blade was allowing herself to be used, manipulated, by a man - even if it is her husband. His face is full of open-mouthed desire, his eyes almost glassy.

“Fuck, babe,” he manages, and then her name is on his lips as she he drives hard into her once more, buried to the hilt and his hands holding her almost bruisingly tight. She can feel him jerk inside her as he finds his release, and he doesn’t sag against her, not quite, but she can feel the laxity in his muscles. She, however, is close enough to coming a second time, and selfish enough, that she drops one hand between her thighs, the pad of her thumb rubbing and flicking across her clit. He sucks in a ragged breath when he realizes, and replaces her hand with his own. He also begins to thrust again, sucking in a breath at his own newly heightened sensitivity. He gives her just a little more, and it’s enough to send her over the edge a second time that night, a spiral down into pure sensation.

“Johnny-“ she chokes out, and he’s still grinning at her as she comes back to herself. He stretches out beside her, sliding an arm under her neck and shoulders and rolling her, laying her head on his chest.

“Two for one. Held up my end of the deal.” He kisses the top of head, a lazy smile on his face.

“I earned it.” She thumps him on the chest halfheartedly. “Those heels.”

“Hey, you picked them out.” He can feel her body rumble with a grumble, unwilling to admit the truth. “We’ll go shopping next day you’re off, get some replacements.” He tucks her head under his chin and caresses her with long sweeps of his hand, back and forth like a metronome. “Thanks again for tonight - doing the premiere, I mean. I know you don’t like them much. You looked great, and everyone said they were glad to see you out again. Proved I hadn’t killed you and hidden the body. I pointed out you were more likely to be the one killing me and putting me in a dumpster somewhere.” He lets his hand rest on the curve of her ribs. “Somehow, they don’t believe me. Something about how you’re too pretty to be a ruthless soldier, patience of a saint to deal with me, blah blah blah.”

“Mean I get to lay you out on your ass sometime in public?” Her voice is slow and husky, her lashes fluttering closed as she drapes a leg over him. “Sold. Tell me when. Clear my schedule.” She drops a hand over his chest, fingers hanging limp and loose along his side. “Play your cards right and I’ll wear my uniform too.”

“Y’know, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you liked the idea of utterly humiliating me in public. Like you didn’t think I was a good fighter. Oh, wait.” He glances down at her face, and her eyes are already shut, but there’s a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re not as good as me,” she says through a yawn, “and I’ll prove it any day, any time.”

“Well, Cass isn’t coming home til tomorrow afternoon. How about we throw down in the morning?” He waits for her answer, but none is forthcoming. “Babe?” He glances down again, and chuckles - she’s asleep, breathing already deep and even. He snorts.

“Well, I’ll assume that’s a no for talking about our feelings, then.”


End file.
